


to be your favorite jacket

by Authumnder



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Domestic Dumbassery more like, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21909961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Authumnder/pseuds/Authumnder
Summary: “This is fucking stupid,” he mutters, and it fuckingis. “How the fuck did you manage to lose the fucking family-sized lube, McDavid?”
Relationships: Jack Eichel/Connor McDavid
Comments: 16
Kudos: 199





	to be your favorite jacket

**Author's Note:**

> there's no actual plot in this there's just fluff fluff fluff, you've been warned. title's from the english version of "i like you so much you'll know it," the full sentence of which is "to be your favorite jacket, just so i could always be near" and yep i totally had to cut it because it's TOO MUCH even for me.
> 
> anyway thanks so much for clicking in. i had fun writing this, hope you do too reading it! :)

Jack’s learned long time ago that Connor McDavid is a dumbass. This isn’t him insulting his long-term boyfriend or something along that line, okay? This is simply him stating the obvious, which is the fact that Connor McDavid is a _big fucking dumbass_.

Building off that, logically speaking it shouldn’t be surprising to him when this thing happens. In fact, Jack should’ve seen this coming like, yesterday, because if this is going to happen to someone out there, of course it’s gonna be _them_.

In reality—

“I can’t believe this,” Jack snaps, rousing from where he’s lying down on the bed.

“I’ve looked _everywhere, _Jack,” Connor says, both hands still rummaging through the drawer. “_Fuck_, where the fuck did it go?”

Jack sighs. “This is fucking stupid,” he mutters, and it fucking _is_. Just two minutes ago they were busy crashing their mouths together, Connor in the vee of Jack’s legs, all groping hands and naked skin and moans. Yet here they are now, Jack about to lash out and Connor standing too far away from the bed. “How the fuck did you manage to _lose _the fucking family-sized lube, McDavid?”

“Don’t call it family-sized, Jack, it’s obviously not for family to share.” Connor says.

Jack throws up his hands. “It’s the size, Connor! That shit is enormous! You can’t possibly lose it!”

“Well.... we clearly did, so,”

You know what, Jack takes that shit about not insulting his boyfriend back. He’s not only insulting Connor, he is giving a _hate speech _about him.

Connor moves from the bedside table to the shelf near the door they’ve never used before, what the fuck, Connor, obviously the lube isn’t there, so Jack decides to get up as well because at the rate Connor’s going they’re not going to have any sex at all _this week_.

Jack starts by looking under the bed—because he actually has a functional brain, unlike _some people_, and it’s very possible one of them accidentally kicked the bottle down there—and then strides towards the ensuite—again, because _logic_—but his attempts still end up unfruitful.

Okay, maybe this is a lack of precaution on their part, buying one (1) huge bottle of lube instead of a few minis or something (so they can spread it around the house), but like, it’s totally not Jack’s fault for thinking his (dumbass) boyfriend can easily keep track of the lube placement—though it’s definitely his fault for putting so much faith on Connor in the first place. Whatever, Jack’s not going to take the blame for this one.

“Maybe I should just fuck your thighs,” Connor says upon entering the room again. Jack isn’t sure what part of the house he was looking in, but he’s gonna bet it’s not somewhere the lube could possibly be.

“And doing it dry? You’ll chafe your fucking dick,” Jack replies. He’s given up on the search and rescue mission, choosing to sit on the edge of the bed, pissed as fuck but still lowkey horny. “Anyway this is totally your fault, so you probably deserve that.”

“How come I’m the only one at fault here?” Connor protests, frowning as he makes his way to the bed again. Jack gives him a chaste peck on the lips when he sits down next to Jack, and then another because Connor might be a dumbass, but he’s Jack’s own personal dumbass.

“You topped last night, dipshit,” Jack says, not quite able to make it sound snappish, instead coming out soft. He pushes at Connor’s chest, forcing him to lay down on the bed, and goes back to kissing him again.

Connor lets out a soft sigh when Jack’s mouth starts trailing downwards, nuzzling his neck and biting lightly on the prominent collarbones there. Jack’s kind of fucked if his annoyance earlier goes out the window immediately after he touches Connor—but he already knew he is all kinds of fucked when it comes to Connor McDavid, so at the end it doesn’t really matter.

He continues his journey, mapping at the hardening buds alternately before going down further. Connor’s strong and all muscles beneath him, chest heaving slightly from Jack’s ministrations, his six-pack a fucking perfection that Jack simply can’t ignore.

“Maybe I should just suck you off.” Jack says, stopping from where he’s lapping at Connor’s navel, and then, when Connor inhales sharply, “You want that, huh?”

“Fuck, Jack,” Connor says, gets a handful of Jack’s hair and pulls, until they’re face to face again. “I wanna fuck you so bad,” he adds, almost mournfully.

Jack chuckles. “Too bad you lost the lube, bud.” He says, laughing harder when Connor socks him.

It’s after they’ve come down from the high, bodies spent and relaxed next to each other, that Connor apparently gets an enlightenment from the gods above.

“Jack, we fucked on the couch last night,” he says hurriedly, shaking Jack from where he’s burying his face onto his neck. “That’s where the lube is!”

Jack’s honestly so _done _with this bullshit.

* * *

Jack isn’t sure what caused Connor to suddenly have the urge to cook dinner. Like, Jack’s not complaining, and it’s not like Connor’s _never _cooked for him before, it’s just that—it doesn’t happen often, not really, and usually they save this kind of nice gestures for big events (anniversaries, birthdays, Valentine’s days—if they happen to be in the same city). So like, this is surprising? But not in a bad way, unless Connor decides to feed him strictly-healthy food, then yes, it is. Totally Bad.

Jack decides to surreptitiously take a look at the ingredients. They don’t entirely consist of vegetables, so he thinks he’s safe.

“Stop hovering, Jack,” Connor scolds. He doesn’t even need to look at Jack, still too busy getting things out of the fridge. Jack’s totally been found out. “Go sit somewhere, would you?”

“You sound like you’re talking to a kid,” Jack says, kind of sulkily, but whatever. “Or a dog.”

“Well, am I wrong?” Connor replies.

Jack laughs, because Connor’s right and protesting would be futile, and decides to give Connor his well-deserved space—though not before giving him a light butt slap and then scurrying away when Connor turns to glare at him. Fuck, Jack loves that ass.

“Have I told you how much I love your ass, babe?” Jack says aloud, because his control over his mouth is close to non-existent at this point. Plus, it’s not like he has to restraint his thirst for Connor in front of Connor himself.

“Twice, Jack,” Connor says sarcastically, though he’s smiling this really cute smile, so it doesn’t really work. “And that’s only today.”

“Nice,” Jack says, smiles back innocently at Connor’s frown.

Connor’s finally done gathering the stuff he needs, starts cutting up and measuring things on the kitchen counter. It’s ten minutes later or so when he tells Jack to look up some stuff.

“My phone’s upstairs,” Jack whines from where he’s perched comfortably on one of the stools. “You can’t make me move now.”

Connor heaves out a sigh. “Use my phone,” he says, pointing at where it sits on the counter.

Jack struggles to reach for it, still unwilling to get his ass off the stool. He only succeeds after some very serious attempt at stretching his right hand, to which Connor scowls really hard at. Whatever, at least Jack manages to snag it.

Connor’s phone isn’t password-locked, which is a rookie move in Jack’s opinion. Your phone can never be safe around hockey players, boyfriend included. Jack unlocks it, and pretty much freezes at the picture Connor has as the wallpaper.

It’s... of Jack.

Jack’s never seen this picture before—hadn’t even known its existence until now—so Connor must took it himself. It’s Jack from their short vacation to Hawaii two years ago, Jack thinks, shirtless on the beach, hair a total mess and sunset behind his back. He was in the middle of laughing at something, face scrunched up all weird but happy, and it’s like—

Jack never doubts Connor’s love for him. Like, they’ve been together for years, went through some messy shit and still in it, together, by the end of it, logically Jack _knows _Connor loves him, has known that he does for a while. But looking at this picture, at the fact that Connor’s set it as his phone’s wallpaper for however long, the thing he sees every time he opens his phone—

Fuck. Jack feels choked up, and he isn’t even in the middle of talking or eating or sucking Connor’s dick, so this is bad. He isn’t sure what to do with all the feelings he’s having right now, and Connor’s still in the middle of reciting shit Jack’s supposed to google—so of course Jack’s only choice is to surge up to Connor and cuts him with a kiss.

It’s not their best one, by far, too much teeth too fast, but Jack feels like he’s being electrocuted, twitchy and shaking all over, and Connor must senses that, too, because he wraps an arm around Jack’s middle, strong and grounding.

“What was that for?” Connor asks when they break apart, a little breathless.

Thank god Jack’s had time to pull himself together enough to avoid getting chirped for being _soft_, replying that with a cheeky, “For being the cutest boyfriend someone can hope for,” and cackles loudly when Connor ducks his head, flushing.

(“Don’t your teammates chirp you?” Jack asks, and when Connor only raises a questioning eyebrow, “you know—having me as your, uh, wallpaper.”

Connor thinks it’s funny how awkward Jack is being, but since Connor likes to think of himself as the nicer one out of the two of them, he only shrugs, saying, “It’s not like they use my phone a lot. Besides, they already know I’m dating you, and I like seeing your face whenever I want.”

“Oh,” Jack says quietly, his cheeks bright red.

Jack might think he’s being sneaky when he takes a picture of Connor sleeping on the couch that evening, but he’s absolutely not. Connor likes him enough to pretend that he’s still asleep, though.

Later, when Connor borrows Jack’s phone, he finds that Jack’s changed the wallpaper to a slightly cropped version of that picture, trying to be discrete maybe. But if anyone bothers to look closely, they’d still find that it’s Connor, sleeping soundly.)

* * *

It wasn’t even an argument at first. Jack says some shit, because Jack’s always saying some shit, and it hits some nerves—ironically _by accident_—and Connor says some shit back in retaliation, and then it blows into this fucking huge thing, and then there’s screaming and yelling, and suddenly they’re not talking anymore.

Jack spends the entirety of the day outside. Going to the gym, staying there longer than he usually would; getting lunch alone at some steakhouse, the food tasting bland and weird; driving around the neighborhood without any particular destination in mind, wishing for the day to just _end _because it gets boring and lonely really quick. Jack’s not used to fighting with Connor, not when they’re miles apart and definitely not when they share a house in the same fucking city, which doesn’t happen as often as they’d like, which makes this fighting business downright the worst.

Point is: Jack misses Connor. Like, fuck, it hasn’t even been a day, but he _does_, missing him like a fucking limb, wanting to just admit defeat and fall back into his arms and make-out, but like. Jack doesn’t know. He just doesn’t feel like being the one to yield.

When he goes back home sometime around 8 pm, the whole house is dark, as though Connor didn’t even bother to turn any light on, and the door to their room is closed, unwelcoming. Jack contemplates knocking, to check if Connor’s still there and not an ocean away, boarding a plane right after Jack stormed out of the house—but he doesn’t, at the end. Does a U-turn and showers, instead, has to wear his boxers again because all of his clothes is in their bedroom. He foregoes the t-shirt entirely.

He lies on the couch for an hour or so, absentmindedly choosing a movie and not playing attention at all, too busy thinking, too busy feeling bad. Then he remembers that his phone has been off all day long and turns it back on.

A flurry of texts immediately comes up. All of them from Connor.

_Nice. Leave the house when you’re clearly in the fucking wrong _

_Great move jackass _

_Just fucking leave when things get difficult _

_you weren’t even listening to me _

_were you?_

_Honestly you know what, I’m glad you decided to leave cos I don’t feel like seeing your fucking face_

Those are sent within minutes of each other. Then, four hours later, which was when Jack ate his lunch:

_Where are you? It’s raining really hard out there _

_Don’t drive when you can’t even see the road _

_Please be safe jack_

Then, precisely at 5 pm:

_The rain’s stopped _

_Come home soon?_

And then, at 7 pm:

_Fuck you jack you don’t even care do you _

_Go fuck yourself_

Fuck.

Jack’s done fucked up. Connor probably thinks Jack was ignoring his texts—Jack’s turned off the read receipts on his phone after too many incidents involving opening texts he was avoiding—when in reality Jack hasn’t even _seen _those in the first place. _Fuck_.

He immediately rushes to their bedroom—barging in without knocking beforehand—and feels his heart drop to his fucking feet when he’s greeted with the sight of a Connor-shaped lump under the blanket, inexplicably looking so fucking sad and depressing.

“Connor?” he whispers, yet it still comes out loud in the room, harshly breaking the silence.

There’s a movement, and then Connor’s face surfaces, bleary-eyed and tired. “Jack?” he says, this soft little sound, like he just forgot the fact that Jack’s been an asshole to him all day long, like he didn’t send a text telling Jack to go fuck himself just an hour ago.

Any resolution to stay petty inside Jack crumbles immediately. Next thing he knows he’s jumping on top of Connor, hugging any part of him he can reach tightly, doesn’t care that the position is awkward as fuck, also maybe a bit painful for Connor, feeling like he’s a blink away from crying.

“I’m sorry,” he says, shaky. “I’m so fucking sorry. My phone’s been off the entire day, I didn’t see your texts.”

Connor lets out a hum, his fingers already making their way to Jack’s head, stroking his hair gently.

“Fuck, I don’t deserve you,” Jack says again. The tremor in his chest failed to be concealed—but maybe it doesn’t matter, he thinks Connor already knows without him having to say a word about it.

“Not true.” Connor replies, firm. He practically has to haul Jack upwards so he can see his face properly—well, as proper as one can see in the darkness anyway. “That’s bullshit, Jack, and you know it too.”

Honestly? Jack doesn’t. It must shows in his body language or something because Connor cups his face with both hands, forcing Jack to stare him in the eyes.

“I fucking love you,” he says, all fierce, and it feels like the first confession, the way Connor’s words shake Jack’s world, the way Jack’s weak everywhere, isn’t even sure he can breathe properly under the intensity of Connor’s gaze. “Okay? I fucking love you, Jack. And we make mistakes, we’re gonna fight and argue and shit, but don’t—don’t ever think I don’t love you, okay?”

This is stupid. Jack’s clearly at fault here, and yet Connor’s the one doing the... the groveling, or the apologising, the reassuring—whatever. Jack hates himself a little.

“I love you too,” Jack ends up whispering. “I love you so fucking much, Connor.”

“I know.” Connor says, then after a long moment of complete silence in the complete darkness, after Jack’s calmed a lot, “why are you shirtless, anyway?”

Jack can’t help the tiny chuckle that escapes him. “All of my clothes is in this room,” he says. “Also, while we’re at this—what kinda loser already in bed sleeping at 8 pm, huh?”

Connor elbows him, but like, not hard at all. “Fuck you, I was worried sick about you,” he says, but not meanly.

Jack still feels bad, though. “Sorry,” he says. “Did you even have dinner?”

Connor shakes his head, says, “Didn’t think I can eat,”

“God, you softie,” Jack says, already back to his usual self, but he kisses Connor on his forehead to show that he’s not making fun, merely pointing the obvious. “I’ll make you some,” he adds, though when he’s about to stand, Connor’s pulling him back down.

“Not before we have make-up sex,” he says, cheeky, and god.

God, Jack’s so in love with him.

* * *

“Connor, did you see my AirPods?”

Connor peeks his head from the ensuite, toothbrush hanging from his mouth. “Have you checked the table in the living room?” he says.

Jack goes, running his eyes over the wooden surface.

“Nope, not there!” he yells.

“The shelf, then!” Connor yells back.

There’s like, 4 shelves in the house. “Which one?”

Still yelling, Connor replies, “Living room!”

Jack goes, running his eyes over the thing.

“Still not there!”

“Try first shelf of the drawer,” Connor says.

“Which. Drawer.”

“Living room!”

Jack opens the first container of said drawer, rummages through it a little before giving up. “Not here either, Connor!” he exclaims. “Who the fuck put their AirPods inside a drawer, anyway? I definitely didn’t.”

“I swear to god,” Jack hears, then Connor shows up, thankfully free of any toothbrush and toothpaste. He hip-checks Jack out of the way and goes through the drawer himself. When the first container turns out to not contain any AirPods, which Jack already knows, he moves to the second.

Jack’s AirPods are there.

“_Who the fuck put their AirPods inside a drawer, anyway? I definitely didn’t_,” Connor repeats, mocking. “Next time use your goddamn _eyes_, Jack,”

Shrugging, Jack says, “Well you said the first shelf of the drawer, so technically you’re also wrong,”

Connor stares at him in disbelief for a few seconds before throwing his hands up.

* * *

Their conversation’s wound down like, an hour ago or so, though occasionally Jack still throws a comment here and there about the content he finds on Instagram (because obviously Jack Eichel doesn’t shut up, even at 1 am) and Connor hums back to show that he’s listening (because he’s weirdly attentive to Jack, even at 1 am).

They didn’t do a lot today—or yesterday, considering it’s past midnight—waking up in the afternoon and choosing to laze around the house until it was dark, even managing to take a nap on the couch while some movie played on the tv; which explains why they couldn’t fall asleep at all, even though they’ve been in bed since 10 pm.

(They did, however, spent the first two hours making out and having the best—_laziest_—sex. So it’s not really bad.)

“Shit, that looks nice,” Connor says.

Jack glances at him and realises he’s talking about the Tasty video Jack’s watching. It’s of ice cream. Connor has always had a weird relationship with ice cream, like he loves it so much he begins to hate it, and the more he hates it the more he loves it. It’s confusing.

“It does,” Jack says, a bit too late maybe, but in his defence he was too busy staring at his self-rumpled boyfriend. _And _getting your breath caught while watching your boyfriend is definitely understandable.

Connor doesn’t say anything, but his gaze is still firmly focused on the screen of Jack’s phone.

“We have ice cream in the freezer,” Jack says carefully. “Wanna have a midnight snack?”

Immediately Connor looks conflicted.

“It’s summer, Connor, breaking your diet a little isn’t gonna ruin your perfect abs,” Jack wheedles—because he knows Connor very damn well and is asshole enough to use it to his advantage. “Soooo? Yes or no?”

The next moment they’re seated on the kitchen stools, a tub of neapolitan ice cream between them. Connor’s still a bit hesitant at first, but Jack can see his resolution crumples after the first spoonful. Ha. Jack’s totally figured him out.

It’s still dark around them—neither of them bothered to turn any light on beside the ones in the kitchen on their way there—so there’s this weird glow around Connor, which makes him look almost ethereal, in Jack’s eyes, which _is _a proof how stupid whipped Jack is about him, considering Connor’s sporting a messy bed hair and is wearing unstylish old pajamas. And yet here Jack is, anyway.

Jack drops his spoon, catches Connor’s eyes, and conversationally says: “Wow so like, I love you a whole lot.” Then he picks his spoon back up.

Meanwhile Connor chokes, coughing uncontrollably—because of course that’s his response to Jack’s horribly genuine love confession. He totally ruins the moment. More so when Jack has to get up and retrieve a water bottle after almost a minute pass and Connor’s still hacking.

“I was having _feelings_, Connor,” Jack says, or whines, whichever. “You’re ruining my moment.”

“Your moment almost killed me, idiot,” Connor replies after taking a swig, but he lures Jack in between his legs and pulls him down for a kiss that tastes like a strange mix of strawberry and chocolate and vanilla. “Love you a whole lot too, though.”

“Whipped,” Jack says.

“You too, Jack,” he’s smiling really widely.

“Really, _really _whipped.”

“Anything for you,” Connor says. “Anything, Jack.”

See? _Stupid whipped_.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! i have a [tumblr](http://sideswiped.tumblr.com) if you wanna yell at me.


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